


Communication Breakdown

by archeolatry



Series: Dean's Top 13 Zepp Traxx [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, Canon Compliant, Castiel's Mixtape, Coda, DeanCas - Freeform, Deastiel, Destiel - Freeform, Episode: s10e05 Fan Fiction, Gen, Led Zeppelin - Freeform, M/M, Meta, Post-Episode: s10e05 Fan Fiction, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 11:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11485374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeolatry/pseuds/archeolatry
Summary: In which Dean drives in search of pancakes.__________"Dean had tried reading some fan fiction before, but couldn’t make it past the fifth description of his own ‘piercing tourmaline eyes’. He didn’t evenwantto know what ‘knotting’ was. And if he ended up as someone’s magical baby mamaone more time, he was gonna salt and burn theentireinternet--BustyAsianBeauties.com be damned. But the thing that really got under his skin was ‘Destiel’.Deastiel. Whatever."





	Communication Breakdown

_“There’s gotta be **something** open,”_ Dean thought hungrily. _“A Waffle House, a TimHo’s...anything.”_

Dean had bet himself he could make it to Gary, Indiana --maybe even Joliet-- before he and Sam had to bunk down for the night. He had, of course, assumed there’d be someplace for hot coffee and a short stack at some point between. (The stupid pancake breakfast banner at St. Alphonso’s had stuck him with a craving, and it had grown to include hash browns and sausage.) His assumption proved more and more wrong with every passing mile.

Either side of Highway 94 was pitch black. A few years ago this stretch of Michigan was dotted with truck stops and gas stations, meant for long-haul drivers on their way to and from Canada; he’d seen them on his commute from Battle Creek. Now they were roadside memorials to the American dream--shuttered, neglected, forgotten. What few take-out joints and breakfast cafes remained were closer to opening hours than closing ones. Even the big chains seemed to have turned off their lights at midnight. 

He couldn’t even get a goddamn radio signal. Two stations out of Grand Rapids and Fort Wayne fought for frequency with each curve of the highway, mixing and fading in and out between hisses of static. 

_“Poor boys and pilgrims with families,_  
_And we are going to Graceland”_

He didn’t imagine an all-night diner would be so hard to find. The last thing he wanted was an hours-old roller hot dog and a cup of gas station mud, but it was beginning to look like his only option.

 _“No wonder Marie throws her heart and soul into the theatre department,”_ he mused. _“There ain’t a goddamn thing else for these girls to do.”_

He’d driven through ghost towns before, and towns that had never been alive to ghost. But there was something particularly rueful about seeing a place like Flint collapse as if it had dry rot; that there may not be any towns like it left when -- _if_ \-- it came time to retire.

_“Communication breakdown_  
_It's always the same...”_

And what would happen to those girls from St. Alphonso’s? Some of them would leave, of course. Go to Toronto or New York or even Columbus. Find jobs. Marry. But some of them would stay. Raise kids. And they would fall to the dry rot before they’d even had a chance to see the world beyond their doorstep. They might never even see it coming. That one damn musical might be the biggest or best thing they ever did. The brightest spot in someone's life might be pretending to be him. _"Now there's a sad, scary thought."_

But the LARPers, the fan-fictioners--even the damn Ghostfacers--could he begrudge them something that brought them together? Made them happy? Made them forget that they were bored housewives, or sold stereo equipment?

_“As if I didn’t know that_  
_As if I didn’t know--”_

Dean had tried reading some fan fiction before, but couldn’t make it past the fifth description of his own ‘piercing tourmaline eyes’. He didn’t even _want_ to know what ‘knotting’ was. And if he ended up as someone’s magical baby mama _one more time_ , he was gonna salt and burn the _entire_ internet--BustyAsianBeauties.com be damned. But the thing that really got under his skin was ‘Destiel’.

 _Dea_ stiel. Whatever.

_“Hey girl I got something I think you ought to know._  
_Hey babe I want to tell you that I--”_

There was more internet dedicated to him and Cas rubbing nubbins than there was to all the damn rugarus on the planet. Research wouldn’t be so goddamn difficult if ‘deangiveshandjobsintheimpala’ would pick up a book on monsters and give them the Cliff’s Notes on how to kill a kitsune. Instead, they wrote about ‘Castiel’s chapped lips, swollen from the ferocity of Dean’s kisses’ or Dean ‘cupping the prominent bulge in Castiel’s trousers’. Or him unbuttoning Castiel’s shirt and ‘discovering the long line of his neck and the sharpness of his collarbones’.

Like Dean didn’t already know about these things.

Like he’d never had dreams of being pinned between Cas and the wall, only to wake up with a rock-hard erection that wouldn’t go away on its own. Or that he’d never hurriedly beat off in the shower while Sam slept, biting his lip to keep the angel’s name from falling out. As if he didn’t want to plant a trail of kisses from one end of Cas’ jaw to the other.

_“I want you to love me all night...”_

The worst thing about fan fiction was reading back his own words, seeing his own actions mirrored and amplified, and having his failures laid out in front of him play by play. Like he didn’t do that enough in his own head.

No, scratch that. The worst thing was seeing "Dean Winchester" take risks that he, _actual_ Dean Winchester, had been too damn cowardly to take. Seeing what Could Have Been typed out by a hundred amateur fucking Vonneguts.

If the fan fictioners were right--and if he had kissed Cas the first time he’d thought of it--they’d be halfway to married by now. They’d be baking muffins and picking out curtains and having more sex than one man’s ass could handle. And he’d be loving every minute.

But that was fiction. Made up. 

That kind of happiness wasn’t possible for anyone. Especially not for him. Not with an actual friggin' _angel_.

_“And I see losing love is like a window in your heart_  
_Everybody sees you’re blown apart...”_

Dean stabbed the stereo off with a finger. It was becoming more static than music, and that was no better than silence. He glanced out the window with a sigh.

In the distance, he could see a tall yellow sign like a beacon. Roadside manna. The phantom scents of coffee, butter, syrup, and gravy danced under his nose. He swerved a little too fast into the exiting lane, but managed to slow down and coast Baby onto the curving offramp. 

Waffle House. He couldn’t have wished for better timing.

Dean put Baby in park, turning in his seat. “Sammy?” He shook Sam by the knee.

The sleeping moose responded with a grunt. "What?"

“Hey Sam, you hungry?”

Sam rubbed at his eyes with a knuckle. “Yeah.” His voice was gruff with sleep. “Where are we?”

“Somewhere in Michigan,” Dean barked. He pulled his keys out of the ignition, pocketed them, and practically bounded out of the Impala. “Let’s get some fuckin’ pancakes.”


End file.
